


Investigative Journalism

by tristesses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blackmail, Bondage, F/M, Sex Magic, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a attempt to become a socialite, Victoire insinuates herself into Draco's life: she becomes the perfect employee, efficient and beautiful, but to Draco she is merely a sickness he must overcome. Or so he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Investigative Journalism

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 11/8/2008.

Victoire is golden-beautiful, the sort of beauty that outshines the limitations of poetry and verse. Part of it is inherited, the veela-charm passed down from mother to daughter, but even next to her mother’s silver, moonlike beauty, she glows. She is warm. She is sensual and pagan, exotic like the sun, and even as a girl there was a promise in her smirk and the way she nibbled at her lips that hinted at the woman she would become. The woman she is now.

Her family and friends have tried to keep her down to earth, and mostly achieved it, telling her she can’t get by on sharp cheekbones and gangly limbs, that she can’t make her way in life with pouting lips and splayed legs. She knows this, and takes a certain pride in her education and her successes. All her life she’s relied solely on her brain, her wit and cleverness (and occasionally on the family name – the Weasleys still aren’t rich but what they lack in Galleons they have in honor); she didn’t make it to her current position on her back. And she loves her family, has a nice boyfriend, respects her country and does her duty as a citizen of wizarding Britain, just like a normal girl should.

But sometimes she wants more.

It’s stupid and disgusting, but sometimes she wishes for the old times, the decadence of the privileged in the dark days before the Battle at Hogwarts (the battle she was named for). She looks at the formal portraits of the high-class men, somber in their old-fashioned robes and canes. The women, in corseted dresses, dripping with jewels, their family crests sitting proud above the swell of their breasts. These old purebloods, later dragged to Azkaban in chains, haggard and wild-eyed as they were subjected to bouts of questioning and interrogation for their crimes. Victoire has read their confessions, and the brutality of what they did sickens her, but she can’t help it. Fine silk robes against her skin, circlets of white gold flickering in her hair. The ability to make men fall to their knees as they court her, to have women simper and curtsey at the honor of her presence. To dismiss an idiot with a wave of her hand.

Oh, she _wants_ it, and it’s wrong, but she does. And she will do anything to get it. Perhaps not acts of the caliber the purebloods used to do – she imagines she could stomach anything, but in her heart she knows she couldn’t maim, couldn’t kill – but there are other ways for a woman to get what she wants. Victoire has been taught never to use them. As an adult woman, however…her family can’t dictate what she can and can’t do now.

These thoughts simmer in her mind, never allowed to take full shape or develop into conscious thought; she’s perhaps too ashamed to completely entertain the thought of betraying her lineage like that. But she inwardly she can’t stand it, day after day, working as chief executive assistant at Ainsley & Co., living the life of a drone when she is capable of _so much more –_

When her company reassigns her to Schlechter & Drache, a German firm with shady business dealings, she doesn’t complain. She’s a smart girl, she can keep her head, and at least the shadows here are glamourous. At least here, she won’t be so _bored._

-

The German estate of the Malfoy family is located in the heart of the country, deep in the wizarding forest known as Augedesriesen, and it is here Draco Malfoy chose to establish his business. Like all things relating to Malfoy business, its legality is debatable, selling dubious types of potions and charms to the wizarding brothels and alihotsy dens, but in the end it evades the law, slips through the loopholes, and gives him a semi-respectable cover while he slowly self-destructs.

Nothing is worse than having a half-blood Weasley walk through these halls, these sanctified passages where the purest of blood once tread. She desecrates the castle with every exhale, spreading her infection to the stones she steps on. She is disgusting, tainted and vile, and she is corrupting him with lust. He has a wife of the highest class and cleanest background, and a mistress who is expensively gorgeous, and access to the finest whorehouses in Europe, but still his eyes follow this Victoire, whose hair is like blood mixed with honey.

Were she not so efficient he would simply sack her, shatter her reputations with slander and lies (the art of gossip is a finely tuned Malfoy specialty), but the truth is she takes care of the dirty work he hates, does the menial tasks he doesn’t want to dirty his hands with, and she does all this well. In the end, though, he asks his father, elderly and worryingly frail, taking care to leave the surname of the girl out of his story.

(Lucius just looks at him, grey eyes still haughty and cold, and Draco shrinks away internally. Even though Lucius is little more than an invalid and Draco is the head of the family, the older man still has the power to destroy him with a word.

“Relieve yourself,” his father tells him, “satisfy your lusts, and ruin the girl. She will leave soon after. And _never_ do something like this again.”

A command is a command, and Draco promises to obey.)

-

He summons her to him by way of a house elf, which he knows aggravates her, freakish little liberal that she is, and when she arrives at a run (Victoire is never lazy; this is one of her few charms) she is somewhat out of breath, clothed in one of the new Muggle-style robes, close-fitting and scandalously short. She tugs at the knee-length hem as she stands before him, smoothing herself out, shaking her hair back and looking him in the eye (impertinent _bitch_ ).

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” She licks her lips – is she nervous? – and rocks slightly on her heels.

Draco doesn’t answer. He traces swirls in the air with his wand, sinuous snakelike trails that wrap around each other and dissolve. His silence disconcerts her.

“Sir? Have I done something wrong?” she ventures, and he almost laughs.

“Have you done something wrong?” He speaks in low, measured tones, falling into the cadence of his father. “Tell me, Victoire, who are your parents?”

She blinks, stupid like all Weasleys when it comes to the truly important things.

“My parents? Bill and Fleur Weasley, sir. Don’t you know that?”

He half-scoffs at her insolence.

“You’re a Weasley, Victoire. You defile the halls of this manor. If it weren’t for your _precious_ Minister of Magic, the anti-Mudblood charms on the grounds wouldn’t have allowed you to enter.”

“Please don’t use that word around me.”

“Mudblood?” he asks, somewhat incredulously. “I slander your family name and you’re upset over the word _Mudblood?_ ”

“You’re a Malfoy,” she says, staring straight through him. “You’ve always hated my family. I expect no better from you on that count.”

He shivers, cold flooding his veins, and flicks his wand, sealing the door with a bang. Victoire jumps, and for the first time a flicker of fear enters her eyes.

“Ignorant bitch,” Draco hisses, striding towards her, grabbing her by the shoulders and thrusting her into the wall, “how _dare_ you speak the name of Malfoy with your disgusting Mudblood mouth?”

Her head hits the wall with a crack, and she lets out a half scream of pain. His fingers twitch at the sound, dig into her flesh, and he buries his face in her hair, against her shoulder, open-mouthed, nipping and biting. He likes the way she struggles against him.

“No,” she gasps, “oh no, no, stop – _stop_ – ” and on that last she brings her knee up into his groin. His breath wheezes out with an _oof_ and he stumbles back. She flies to the door and fumbles with the handle, pounding at it, nearly screaming.

Draco rights himself, eyes watering with the pain, and snatches his wand from the desk. He stalks over to Victoire, whose screams have degenerated into husky sobs, grabs her by the hair, prodding her temple with his wand, and drags her to his desk, flinging her facedown across it.

“ _Lashio_ ,” he whispers, and ropes appear around her wrists, pinning her hands behind her back. He keeps one hand pressed between her shoulderblades, knuckle on a pressure point, and every time she flails he digs it in and sends white pain sparking through her body.

“Look at you, Victoire Weasley,” he says mockingly, “all tied up and no place to go. How do you think your parents would feel, seeing you a slave to a Malfoy?”

“You bastard,” she spits, flushed and furious, “you complete utter fucking cocksucking bastard – ”

“I’ve had enough of your chatter,” Draco says, and balls up sheets of parchment lying on his desk, shoving them in her mouth. She sputters but her coherent speech is lost. The fire in her eyes remains.

“I could rape you,” he tells her thoughtfully. “It would be quick and clean, and it would hurt you immensely. Effective and traditional. But – ” he hikes her robe up, pushing it up around her waist, and slides a finger under the elastic of her knickers. “I don’t think that would…destroy you, as I would hope this encounter will.” Her skin is gorgeously soft, and when he flicks his nail against her clit, hard, she twitches.

Draco shoves her knickers down to her ankles with one hand, then moves behind her. The rope is chafing her wrists; her flesh around it is red and prickled.

He presses his wand against her, making a note to wipe her filthy juices from it later, and whispers, “ _Vibrato_.”

Immediately, Victoire goes on tiptoe; she makes a little noise of surprise, then a more substantial moan as Draco rubs the quivering wood against her. She’s shaking her head, but leans against the wand, maneuvering it to touch her where she needs it most. He jerks it away just as she gets it properly in position, and she groans dissent.

“A little overeager, aren’t you?” he asks her, nearly disguising the lust in his voice. “It’s a Weasley women’s trait – Ginevra was like that too. All sluts. You have to be, to reproduce so often, I’d expect. Spread your legs.”

She obeys, and his fingers find her wet, slipping easily to the swollen knot of nerves, caressing and stroking; she sighs through her paper gag, and arches her back. Draco takes his hand away, and she wriggles in annoyance, but when he places the wand against her clit, it’s too sudden and the pleasure is almost too sharp. She cries out and jerks away; he slaps her arse hard, then, liking the feel of it, smacks her several times, and she presses her forehead against the varnished wood of his desk, panting and whimpering.

His cock is hard by the time she begins grinding against the wand, muscles flexing, and he opens his robes and fumbles himself out, stroking himself, smearing precome along the shaft to the base. Victoire has twisted her head to peer over her shoulder at him, eyes wide, and he smirks at her expression.

“A bit different than your werewolf cub, I should expect,” he says, and grabs her leg, shoving it up so it’s perched on the desk, making her grunt, leaving bruises on her thigh, and thrusts into her sharply.

Victoire is silky and hot and tight, and she very nearly howls as he fucks her. He knots his hand in her hair, yanking her head back, the desk creaking in rhythm with their movement. Sensation overwhelms him as she convulses with a whine, and for a few precious seconds his vision is wiped out, white sparks exploding under his eyelids.

When he is fully coherent once more, he releases his grip on her hair, and steps back, shaking slightly from the intensity of his orgasm.

“ _Relashio_ ,” he whispers, pointing his wand at Victoire, and the ropes around her wrists slither and fall to the ground. She yanks her knickers up hurriedly, keeping her eyes averted. Draco turns to adjust himself, tucking and folding his robes back into place. Behind him, he hears the rustle of parchment, which he dismisses as her gag. With a flick of his wand, the door unlocks, but she doesn’t go to it. He wishes she would; he doesn’t want to see her repulsive Mudblood self, doesn’t want to face exactly what he’s done to her. It isn’t as fulfilling as he had hoped it’d be.

“Leave,” he tells her, without turning to face her. “Don’t come back. Consider yourself sacked.”

“Sir,” she says, timidly, then stops. He hears her footsteps, measured and quick, as she exits; she breaks into a run as she reaches the stairs.

Draco’s hands are trembling. He looks down at them, holds them out in front of him as if examining something. Strands of red-gold hair are twisted around his fingers. Convulsively, he clenches them into a fist. He stands like that for a long time.

-

The Aurors break down his door the next night; his wife, luckily, isn’t there, choosing instead to spend the evening with her society friends. They hex him almost immediately, without giving him a chance to speak or even reach for his wand. They read him his rights as they hold him at wandpoint, then _Stupefy_ him. He wakes in Azkaban, which is not as gruesome as it had been before; the dementors are gone, and they allow him clothes, food, and newspapers. It feels dreamlike, nothing resembling reality for the Malfoy heir. The food is insubstantial; the articles wither beneath his gaze. The only thing that strikes through his haze is the headline of the June fifth _Daily Prophet_ :

>   
> **MALFOY ASSETS SEIZED; INFORMER REWARDED**   
> _“The infamous son of Lucius Malfoy, Draco, age forty, has been accused of fraud, the selling of illegal products under the guise of the firm Schlechter & Drache, and use of the Dark Arts without license. He is currently being held in Azkaban, release date indefinite.”_   
> 

The article continues, listing his many sins, blackening the family name. It’s nothing worse than the backlash after the Dark Lord’s defeat. The paragraph Draco most despises, however, is this:

>   
> _“In an unorthodox display, the Wizengamot has awarded ownership of all former Malfoy property to Victoire Weasley, the person who risked life and limb to find documented evidence of Malfoy’s crimes and take them to the Ministry. This evidence included illegal contracts, proof of tax evasion, and letters linking Malfoy to several anti-Muggle terrorist groups. In a statement released yesterday, she stated her intent to liquidate all assets, including the German mansion where the nefarious company was based, and donate a portion of the revenue to charity.”_   
> 

He remembers the article sentence by sentence; as he rots away in his cell, drugged by the monotony of prison life, he runs over each phrase, licks the sharp points of her name in his mind: Victoire Weasley. She is so aptly named, he thinks, but victory won’t be hers for long.

Draco has plans.

-

Victoire wears silk, now, and small dainty jewels, rubies that accentuate the fire in her hair. She is admired by all for her selfless deeds, and she moves among the social circles of the elite like a hummingbird, never staying in one place for long. She has been written up in history books; she has a steadfast lover; she has made her family proud. She is twenty-four years old.

She never tells the secret of her success, no matter who asks. Not to a soul.


End file.
